


a proposition

by quietmoon



Series: megop week 2020 [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Fluff, Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Miscommunication, Peace, and optimus is a horny bastard at heart, god bless, megatron is a romantic at heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22177507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietmoon/pseuds/quietmoon
Summary: “I think you’ll find my social skills are perfectly intact,” Optimus manages eventually.Megatron's expression falls into something deadpan.
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Series: megop week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824118
Comments: 38
Kudos: 228
Collections: MegOP Week 2020





	a proposition

**Author's Note:**

> [prompt](https://megop.tumblr.com/post/188937997837/the-results-have-been-calculated-megop-week-will): cultural differences
> 
> this is a lot more about miscommunication and post-war awkwardness than actual cultural differences (bc all my ideas for that had no chance of fitting under 20k /sigh). anyway, happy megop week! ♥

Optimus can tell Megatron is nervous.

Many would believe the warlord to be impervious to anxiety. Even Optimus hasn’t seen it much in recent deca-vorns. He saw it more often when they were both young, playing at rebellion, when Orion Pax would be too careless, or the next scheduled opponent in the gladiatorial pit was a cause for intimidation. Even when he was younger, as an old miner or a young fighter, when he was more open with his emotions, Megatron’s — Megatronus’, he should say — anxiety would manifest in subtle ways. Optimus remembers finding it painfully endearing; the way servos would clench and unclench, the long claws stretching out in a flex before drawn back into a fist, over and over; the tiny tick in his jaw as dentae worried across themselves; a small quirk of an eyebrow before the optics glanced away for a nano-klik.

He’s doing them now. Standing at Optimus’ hab-suite door, looking all too big in the entrance, clenching his jaw and gritting his teeth and forcing himself to look straight at the Prime.

Even now, after all this time, Optimus’ spark finds it endearing. His logic processes want him to pity or reject, after so long recognising the mech as an enemy that needed to be dealt with, but his spark — that cannot be reprogrammed, not even by the wear and tear of time and practice.

It’s ridiculous. Megatron is not cute.

Yet, somehow, right now, he _is._ Unbearably so.

Optimus tilts his head and waits for Megatron to speak. It is a strange time to visit — and even stranger that it be Megatron, who has… In truth, _avoided_ him all these lunar cycles spent rebuilding Cybertron. Optimus did at first wonder if he should consider it suspicious activity, but nobody else seemed much surprised. The decepticon forces did keep to themselves at the beginning of the truce, Megatron more than any, but the lines have slowly blurred over the past lunar months spent working together to return their planet to life, to at least a habitable status.

Not for Megatron and Optimus, though.

He wondered if it might have been due to their positions — both he and Megatron have an intrinsic sense of duty, after all, and the leaders of two previously opposed factions can’t be seen to fall right into step. Perhaps that is what Megatron’s been thinking…

Optimus doubts it, though. Recently, he’s been considering what is likely the truth. That Megatron has avoided him because it is natural to him; because he does not like Optimus Prime, and does not wish to spend any time around him for that simple reason.

It’s obvious, and simple, and undoubtedly the truth of the matter. Yet, Optimus’ had allowed his own subroutines to lead him in circles, looking subconsciously — desperately — for a different answer.

It’s an answer he should come to terms with, he knows. Yet, he cannot bring himself to.

Optimus shakes his head minutely. Now is the worst time to allow himself to get lost in his thoughts, especially ones filled to the brim with such self-pity. He refocuses his optics on Megatron.

Hardly an astro-klik seems to have passed while Optimus’ processor whirled through the familiar tangled net of thought. It is a well-worn path in his mind.

But still Megatron doesn’t say a word. Optimus’ optics glance down to take in the claws twitching and clenching before returning his gaze to Megatron’s own. The glowing red of his gaze is a comfort, even after these vorns. The purple had unnerved him, not only for its connotations but the departure from what Optimus had known what feels like his entire existence — it was awful. But here, Megatron is as he _should_ be, with red eyes and sharp angles and heavy armour and an arrogant shyness that might be the most uncomfortable Optimus has seen him in a non-life-threatening situation for… oh, _millennia._

Against his will, he feels his countenance soften. And immediately, with more severity, Optimus terminates the thought. _I’m getting old,_ he thinks wearily. _Too nostalgic._

He needs to learn to face Megatron in peacetime without pining for him.

Anyway.

Optimus clears his throat. Megatron shifts at the sound.

They continue to stare at each other in silence for… perhaps a few nano-kliks? Optimus optics narrow above his battle mask as he takes in the familiar lines of Megatron’s face. He truly is a handsome mech, even now…

_Oh, for Pit’s sake—_

Optimus cycles his optics. _Get a hold of yourself, Prime._ He checks his chronometer idly, just to distract himself, and cycles them again in surprise when he realises they’ve been staring at each other in silence for almost five breems.

Oh, thank Primus none of his bots are here to see this. Thank Primus Megatron’s officers aren’t — he’d be catching glares from Soundwave’s _field_ at this point.

Megatron is smiling at him. How long has Megatron been smiling at him?

Optimus clears the static from his voice box. He should really speak right now. He should really say something.

His spark, traitorous as ever, seems to careen forward at the thought, pulsing against the frontal wall of its chamber as if it could reach out and touch—

With more force, he clears his voice box again. “Megatron,” he says, in a voice he keeps carefully measured.

The tiny smile drops from Megatron’s faceplates, and he straightens up. “Prime,” he replies.

Optimus is so used to hearing that voice hiss his rank in a snarl, dripping with derision and bitterness and not a little bit of something else, something he’d gotten very good at ignoring by the end of the war— But now, as he speaks it, Megatron’s voice doesn’t say it like an insult or an attack. The glyph is clear. His voice is calm.

Optimus cycles his optics for a third time, feeling a bit the fool.

He should ask him to return during work joors. It isn’t appropriate for Megatron and Optimus Prime to be alone together, surely, not at Optimus’ hab-suite entrance, not in such twilight hours of the cycle. Optimus’ should ask why Megatron is here and then rearrange a time where their SICs and TICs can be present for any meeting he wants.

“Would you like to come in for some energon?” Optimus finds himself asking. His own servo twitches at his side with the sudden wish to facepalm.

Megatron’s lips twitch. Optimus wonders hopefully for a moment if he’s about to smile again, but it’s gone before the data is fully-formed in his processor, and Megatron’s faceplates settle into a sort of neutral scowl and he nods infinitesimally. At least, on Megatron’s face, it looks neutral; his actual scowls have such a ferocity to them, it’s easy to differentiate between the two.

Well, for Optimus, at least. He knows his bots have a bit more trouble with it, but that’s because they haven’t known Megatron nearly as long as Optimus has.

Well, Ratchet has, but that’s not—

Megatron coughs politely, and Optimus’ attention is dragged back to the present. The mech has an expectant air about him, and Optimus realises belatedly that he’s still taking up the entire doorway despite inviting him in.

“Ah,” he says. “Yes.” He steps back to allow Megatron entrance. “Please, come in.”

If he thought Megatron looked strange standing in the entrance, he looks positively absurd within the context of Optimus’ hab-suite hallway.

The rebuilding energies are focused primarily on Iacon right now, what with the entire pre-war infrastructure having been focused there — a fact that brings Optimus no small degree of consternation even now — so it only seemed prudent to make use of the resources they had access to. Therefore, once the restoration of the Hall of Records began, it made sense for Optimus to make use of his old hab-suite; that is, the one that belonged to Orion. It’s a cramped space, and he’s never been more aware of it than at this moment, trying to squeeze against the wall as Megatron shuffles past.

“Cozy,” Megatron mutters as he passes him.

Optimus feels his faceplates heat under his battle mask, only slightly, but enough to notify his processor of a change. He fights to keep his expression unchanged. “It was not built to accommodate one warframe, nevermind two.”

Megatron makes a strange noise. “Yes, I hardly fit in here when you were smaller. No matter.” And before Optimus has a chance to properly process that, he turns into the hab-suite proper.

Optimus stares after him. Yes. That’s… That’s true. This is hardly Megatron’s first time visiting.

He goes to follow when his pedes stumble over themselves.

The last time Megatron was in here — well, _Megatronus_ was here — he had… That is, Optimus and he— Or rather, Orion and Megatronus, they had, against the hab-suite entrance door no less—

Megatron’s helm pokes back into the hallway. “Coming, Prime?” he asks. The tiny smile is back on his faceplate.

Optimus can feel his optics spread to their widest aperture. _So much for keeping a dignified expression._ “Yes—” He blanches and clears his voice box. Blast it, why is it so staticky tonight?

Megatron might be smirking at him. Optimus isn’t sure.

He walks into the main room and goes about preparing two glasses of energon to keep his hands busy. It has the added benefit of keeping his back to Megatron while he asks, in a clear and non-static-laced tone, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

He hears the quiet snick-slide of Megatron’s armour shifting. Perhaps he has shifted his weight from one foot to another? Optimus starts filling a container with energon, gaze resolutely focused on it.

“Why are you talking like that?”

Some energon spills down his finger as he jumps — flinches? — and Optimus sighs, placing the glass down so the flow from the dispenser will automatically stop. He turns so that Megatron can see his narrowed optics, and without thinking lowers his battle mask so that he can lick the stray fuel off his finger. “This is how I always talk, Megatron.”

Megatron doesn’t respond, optics focused on Optimus… finger?

“Megatron?”

Red optics meet his, blown wide. Just how Optimus figured he must have looked in the hallway. “What, Prime?” Megatron snarls at him.

The aggression is sudden, but Optimus is for some reason more at ease upon hearing it. The mech looks nervous again, gritting his dentae, and it is a relief to know that at least he is not on steady ground right now, either.

Optimus has no idea what line of logic his processor is going down tonight, but it’s more haywire than he’s willing to engage with. After quirking an eyebrow at Megatron as if to say _What is your problem?_ , he turns back to resume filling two glasses with fuel.

Megatron growls something to himself about, “Bad idea from the beginning, blasted Prime, half a processor to leave right now,” and it serves to calm him down enough that when Optimus returns to him with his energon, he can look him in the optic when he takes it.

Their servos brush in the exchange, and Optimus’ frame freezes in the movement without permission. Megatron slows as well, watching for his reaction carefully.

Megatron’s optics are a rich glowing red. Vibrant, as Orion had described them frequently. He looks healthy. Optimus hasn’t really had a chance to get a good look at him for quite some time now — he always seems busy with his duties as Lord Protector, or is embroiled in some conflict resolution with his unruly officers, or… _He’s avoiding me,_ Optimus remembers for what feels like the fiftieth time just that day, and his expression drops.

He takes a step back, and his fingers are suddenly cold as they drop away from Megatron’s servo.

He still can’t make himself look away.

Megatron licks his lips.

Optimus clear his voice box again.

Simultaneously, they both raise their drinks and take a small sip. Belatedly, Optimus remembers his battle mask, and feels all the more vulnerable. But to activate it now would surely be rude. Unless Megatron doesn’t care? But of course he doesn’t care, he avoids him, Megatron does not have two spare thoughts of Optimus in his processor to rub together—

Optimus takes another swig of his fuel, terminating the thought. His spark does not feel well.

“This,” Megatron announces, “is disgusting.”

Optimus starts. “The fuel?” It tastes all right to him. Yes, it’s a wartime ration, diluted and straightforward, but the taste is familiar and comforting, and it sits easy in his fuel tank.

“No, not the fuel, Prime.” Megatron rolls his optics. “ _This._ ” He gestures between them.

Optimus tilts his head, squinting at Megatron’s servo. “I do not follow.”

Megatron lets out another growl, louder this time, and mutters, “I have half a mind to offline you this very moment,” before downing his drink.

Optimus wonders idly if that is a threat or a reassurance.

Megatron continues not a sparkthrum later, “Was it the Matrix that fried your social skills, or is that just old age?”

Against his will, Optimus feels his eyebrows draw together in a disapproving frown. It is harder to maintain the neutral expression he so perfected during the war now, in peacetime, when his greatest enemies are the awkwardness between him and his ex-rival-enemy-lover-conjunx-partner-friend, and the odd cross-faction argument over seating arrangements during morning meetings. There isn’t really a manual for how to go about conversations with someone like that.

“I think you’ll find my social skills are perfectly intact,” Optimus manages eventually.

Megatron's expression falls into something deadpan. “Oh, this is how you entertain all your company, then?”

“I do not entertain _any_ company. This is my hab-suite, not my office. Did you only visit to insult me?”

Megatron’s expression lightens. “Partly.”

The sigh escapes him before he can stop it. “Then I’ll thank you to keep the rest for tomorrow morning.” Disappointment curls in his spark with a visceral sharpness, and Optimus is taken aback by the strength of his own emotional reaction. What was he thinking Megatron visited for?

“Actually, I visited,” Megatron says quickly, as if reading his thoughts, “to ask you on a date.”

The energon container in Optimus' hand crushes and energon splashes across his servo and wrist. He stares down at it dumbly, then back up to Megatron.

The warlord crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “What?”

“What?”

Megatron’s optics narrow. “Prime, if you don’t want to—”

“No!” Optimus shouts, far louder than he should. Megatron’s mouth falls shut. “That is— I—” He turns to drop the ruined energon container on the countertop. “I-I apologise, I must have misheard you. Could you repeat—?”

Megatron has stepped forward with a cloth — _where did he get that?_ Optimus wonders wildly, and another part of his processor says, _his subspace, obviously,_ and of course, yes, he must carry it around for such situations—

“For one klik, could you stop thinking?” Megatron murmurs. He is smiling. He looks amused. A little frantic, Optimus feels his battle systems come online, and he shuts them down hurriedly. But the whirr is audible in the quiet between them, and he hears more than sees Megatron chuckle as he takes Optimus’ servo in his own.

Optimus opens and closes his mouth dumbly as Megatron wipes the spilled energon with care. He can’t look away from his face, but Megatron’s attention is focused down. It is so nice to see him without a frown. It may be one of Optimus’ favourite things about peacetime. Of course, the peace itself, and the lack of war and fighting, all of those are great parts too, it isn’t to say that he doesn’t recognise as a Prime the significance of an end to the pointless war—

“Optimus.”

Optimus follows the way Megatron’s mouth forms his name. He cycles his optics twice.

Megatron looks up when he doesn’t respond, and too late, Optimus remembers to say, “Yes.”

Megatron subspaces the soiled cloth. His servos are holding his, warm and strong and unflinching. Optimus sure wishes he had that drink right about now.

Megatron’s gaze flicks away. He’s nervous. _Unbearably cute._

“Have I overstepped my bounds?” he asks quietly.

Optimus is supposed to think before he speaks. He is used to thinking before he speaks. But around this gentler nervous peacetime Megatron, all rational thought seems to fly out the window— “What bounds?”

A flash of annoyance across red optics, and it is grounding, it is familiar. “Are you avoiding me on purpose, Prime? Sidestepping my words, turning at my presence—” Optimus hears Megatron grit his teeth and he onlines his optics in surprise. When did he offline them? He didn’t mean to do that— “ _Ignoring me,_ ” Megatron continues, voice dipping into an angry growl.

Optimus’ fingers curl around Megatron’s without thinking. “But you hate me.”

“What?”

“You— You want me to— I thought—” He shakes his head again. “My processor is malfunctioning tonight, excuse me. I haven’t been avoiding you, I thought that you wanted me to— That is, I thought you were… avoiding… me,” he finishes, a little pathetically.

Megatron only frowns, but his servos stay tight in Optimus’ hold. “When I saw you were making a point to steer clear of me, I wanted to give you space.”

“No, you see, that is what _I_ was doing. I didn’t wish to make you uncomfortable,” Optimus says too quickly. “You hardly look my way, I thought—”

“Because I didn’t want to see you duck away from me!”

“But only because I knew you did not wish to speak with me!”

“Why would I try to if I didn’t want to?”

“I don’t know!” His grip is too tight on Megatron’s servos, he’s going to hurt him. “Because we’re rebuilding a planet together, we still need to talk occasionally to do that!”

“Is this a rejection?”

Optimus starts, pulling his servo away suddenly. “No! I mean, that is— You should— I’m sorry?”

The confusion on Megatron’s face reflects how Optimus is feeling. “What?”

“What?”

They stare at each other.

Eventually, Megatron sighs, and drops his face in a servo. “How did we ever manage to get conjunxed? We can hardly speak to one another.”

Optimus gives him a wry smile. “There was less to trip up on, then.” Then, as his processor _finally_ catches up with him, he chokes, “D-Did you say _date_?”

Megatron is staring at him in disbelief.

“You want to go on a date with me?”

Megatron’s optic twitches.

“You wish to take me on a date?”

“I did not say that.”

As the Prime, Optimus has most certainly a duty to definitely say no to any personal relations an ex-warlord might try to initiate— “I’m free tomorrow evening.”

Megatron’s optics cycle, and Optimus huffs out a vent, tension seeping from his frame. “Great,” the mech eventually says. “I shall… visit. Tomorrow.”

Optimus nods. “Good. I mean, good plan. I shall be here.”

“To go on a date. With me.”

Again he nods, far too eagerly. “Good. That is— Yes. I like this idea.”

Megatron coughs. “You’re so awkward, Prime, I can’t—” Chuckling to himself again, he brings a servo up to rub across his face. “Fine. Let’s…” He makes a face. “ _Date._ ”

A breathless laugh escapes his voice box. “All right.”

Megatron shoots him another glare, but it only serves to make Optimus’ smile widen. “Frag you, Prime,” he mutters.

He doesn’t mean to say it, he truly doesn’t— “Tomorrow.”

Megatron freezes. Optimus freezes in response, optics widening. With a whirr- _snap_ , his battle mask slides into place, horribly loud in the otherwise silent hab-suite.

They stare at each other. Optimus’ chronometer tells him it lasts all of three breems. Megatron has lovely optics.

Turning suddenly, Megatron starts all but running for the hallway. “Tomorrow, then,” he says savagely, in a voice laden with static.

Optimus is so giddy he could die. He moves to watch as Megatron storms out of the entrance, and only because of that does he catch the other mech slowing, pausing, and turning to glance behind.

Their gazes meet. Megatron’s softens, just the slightest bit, before he pulls his expression back to a scowl, and disappears from view.

The hab-suite door slides shut.

Again, almost rudely, his processor finds fit to play back the memory of exactly what occurred against that very door millennia ago. Optimus decides quite suddenly that he has given up trying to control his glitching processor for the night — let it analyse whatever it wishes to, blast it — and allows the memory play out in full. It does not feel quite so illicit with the promise of a refresher on the horizon.

_Tomorrow, then._

Optimus bites his lip against a smile.

* * *

A few joors after Megatron’s departure find Optimus standing in the middle of his hab-suite looking curiously at the crushed energon container still on the countertop. After a moment of deliberation he engages his communication system.

`_Ratchet, I believe I have been propositioned._ `

`_...Did you really wake me up to tell me that?_ `

`_By Megatron,_` Optimus adds, hoping for a reaction he might make sense of.

It takes a few breems for Ratchet to reply. `_Well, who the Pit else would it be by, Optimus? All I can say is it's about time._`

 _Oh._ He hadn’t thought of that. `_Ratchet,_` he comms after a thoughtful pause, `_would you say I’m awkward lately?_`

The reply is almost instantaneous. `_Impressively so._`

Optimus frowns.

Ratchet isn’t finished, though. A few moments later, another message arrives. `_So is Megatron, though. You idiots suit each other._`

_Oh._

` _Goodnight, Optimus._ `

Smiling, Optimus picks up the crumpled container and examines it. `_Goodnight, old friend._`

**Author's Note:**

> mg: i just want a mate—  
> op: you just want to mate!?


End file.
